Saturday, January 11, 2014

By Dorothy Bell (Guest Blogger)

I fall in love every
time. I fall in love with the hero, while at the same time I’m
falling in love with the heroine. I am the hero. I am the heroine. As
the hero, I know my faults, I’m usually proud of my faults. I paid
a high price for every one of them. I have no intention of changing.

As the heroine, I’m
never good enough. Sometimes I know I’m beautiful, sometimes I
think I’m just so-so, but I always have flaws and bruises, maybe
invisible, that prevent me from believing in myself, believing I have
worth. Writing as both male and female, I feel and respond in a duel
of emotions, all pleasures, all pain, all humiliations. I laugh at
myself, I feel sorry for myself and protect myself at all times. It’s
not easy to fall in love with me the hero, me the heroine, to get
past the barriers.

Switching roles,
writing the gambit of emotions, the twists and turns, upheavals,
passion, is an exhausting challenge. A challenge I love. I can’t
wait to don the next character role. In my head, I can become the
minx who loses her heart to the hopeless, totally unsuitable, foolish
rogue. I can be the worthless, unworthy bounder who loves the wealthy
vixen. I understand the heartless cad who can’t resist the imp. I
have to make fun of the stuffed-shirt who desires the shady lady. And
I will cheer the tight-corseted prude, knowing full well she’s
going to cave-in to the rake who seeks her ruin. I can’t wait to
invade the reclusive, elusive bachelor, seduce him with my innocence
and guile.

Writing romance
allows me to stir passions, mix up a batch of love no matter the
improper, improbable, impossible ingredients.

Coming soon:
Dance Hall Road: Buck Hoyt runs a whorehouse from April to
October. During the winter he hordes his solitude like a miser hordes
his gold. But this winter, this winter he’s taken in two unwelcome,
unavoidable guests, one of them doesn’t understand the rules and
the other is too. Look for Dance Hall Road. You’ll fall in
love with Buck. You won’t want to—but you will. You won’t be
able to resist.

The Cost of
Revenge

Oregon historical
western romance

Storekeeper Quinn
O’Bannon falls for Tru McAdam, a thieving, sloe-eyed vixen out for
revenge. Stanley O’Bannon seeks retribution against his traitorous
sons, Quinn and Royce, and the folks that took them to their bosom.

If destiny brought
Tru to Laura Creek to extract revenge on the O’Bannons, how can she
give her heart to Quinn? All becomes clear when Quinn’s life is
threatened. Her destiny; she will deliver the fatal blow.

Excerpt

Quinn,
turning his attention back to the lump of hostility sitting on his
step, put his hands on his hips, steeling himself for battle. “All
right, Miss McAdam….”

Her
black eyes glittered and flashed, meeting his challenging grin.
Obvious loathing oozed from her every pore. “Don’t you dare touch
me.” she said, her words reminding him of a snake’s hiss of
waning before sinking fangs into flesh.

“Oh,
I’m going to touch
you,” Quinn
assured her with a wag of his head. “As a matter of fact, I’m
going to pick you up and carry you upstairs to my bed.”

“I’ll
bite your nose off. I’ll scratch your eyes out if you try it.”

He
leaned down, his face inches from her nose. “I should leave you
right where you sit. You can’t walk,” he said, pointing out the
obvious, his eyes traveling the length of her, finally settling on
the sight of her fat foot and her bandaged ankle. Deliberately,
raking

every
inch of her body with his eyes, his gaze traveled back up to her
shoulder. “You’re right-handed, if I’m not mistaken.”
Recalling how she’d carried the baby on her left hip, leaving her
right arm free, he knew he had it right. “I doubt you can feed
yourself, not with that sling on your arm and your wrist all bandaged
up. No, Miss McAdam, I don’t think you’ll give me too much
trouble. You see, I have what you hold most dear.”

“You
have nothing.”

“Oh,
but I do,” he said sweetly. “I have your brothers and your
sister. Ah, you see, I’ve lured them into my lair with the promise
of food and shelter. The way I see it, you have no choice in the
matter, and I can and I will carry you inside. Your only alternative
is

to
sit here like a stubborn, broken-down mule. I can’t let you stay
out here, I’d have to sweep you off my step in the morning.”

“Go
to hell.” she said. When he picked her up, she screeched and cursed
him in a language he couldn’t understand, but got the meaning
behind every utterance as he carried her around to the back entrance
of the mercantile.

*
* * *

Tru
tried to kick, but couldn’t, at least not without inflicting a
great deal of pain upon herself. He had her good arm snugged up
against his chest, and her other arm was useless, swelling fast. She
had a headache, and she could feel a fever coming on—in more ways
than one.

The
first time she’d seen him, she’d thought Quinn O’Bannon too
pretty. Up close this fact became strikingly disturbing. He even
smelled pretty—spicy and clean like soap. He had tan skin, his
features almost perfect. Almost, except for that bump on the bridge
of his nose. But even that defect enhanced the rakish, dangerous air
he projected. To notice his nose, she couldn’t very well avoid
looking into his dark, brown eyes. She regretted doing so, instantly.
Those laughing eyes mocked her indignation.

One
thing they could probably agree on—she was a fool. She had to be,
to feel this emotion, cradled here in his arms...heart racing...pulse
pounding. She could feel every muscle in his arms, and the warmth of
his hands through the fabric of her skirt, pressing against her
thigh. His touch sent ripples of aching desire through her veins.
They were so close she could feel the heat of his chest against her
side. Angry and in pain, it thoroughly disgusted her that she could
be so affected by his nearness, by his touch. It wasn’t what she
wanted. She wanted to hate Quinn O’Bannon. She wanted his touch to
sicken her, not set her on fire with longing.